The Legend of Wrocky Bell-boa
by Danco
Summary: In the twilight years of his boxing career, Wrocky Bell-boa could never have known that his gallant defeat at the hands of Masom 'The Lime' Dixom would set him on a path of greatness comparable to that of legend's greatest adventurers: Odysseus, Captain Kirk and Frodo Baggins. Fasten your earlobes, kids. The funtimes have only just begun... Note: I may finish writing this one day.
1. Chapter 1: The Legend Begins

"Dammit Wrocky! What the hell were you thinking this time?!" Said the ghost of Adrien.

Wrocky mumbled incomprehensibly.

"You've agreed to fight Hugo Dragonsbane - the undefeated heavyweight champion of Norway, at a week's notice, for no money, in Oslo Spektrum arena, with both arms tied behind your back... YOU CAN'T WIN!" Screamed the ghostly cadaver.

Wrocky mumbled again. It sounded like he said something about a cheese sandwich.

The ghost of Adrien sighed, "I know Dragonsbane killed your new trainer, Sugarmore Jenkins, but that's no reason to engage with him in what will surely be the finest gladiatorial spectacle of the modern age, culminating in your bloody demise! Can't you see it was an accident? Dragonsbane just made Sugarmore a nice cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch - how was he to know the man was lactose intolerant?!"

Wrocky continued mumbling.

"Wrocky, will you take that damn ball out of your mouth? I can't understand you!" Snapped the spook.

Wrocky hocked back a massive loogie and spat a phlegm-sodden tennis ball out of his wonky mouth. It shot across the room like a soggy comet and broke a window. "Eugh, that's much better!" He said through a proud, lopsided grin.

He looked back to where the ghost of Adrien had been standing just a moment ago, but she had disappeared. All that was left was a shiny, golden tooth.

Wrocky never knew that in life, Adrien was secretly a witch - a dark enchantress of the highest order. She cast a spell of invincibility upon her beloved husband's skull to protect him from the savage beatings he frequently took in the ring. But now, in death, her enchantments were only 8% effective, so she manifested what was left of her maleficent powers into the gnarly gold tooth which now sat upon Wrocky's beige carpet. He bent down to pick up the lustrous dental implant, but as soon as his enormous banana-fingers touched it, a peculiar feeling came over him, a shiver shot up his arthritic spine, and the tooth softly began to whisper.

"...Wear the tooth, Wrocky. It will protect you..."

Knowing what he had to do, he duly pushed the spiked root-end of the metallic molar into his gum, puncturing the soft tissue as he forced it home, securing the piece of shrapnel deep into the hilt of his jawbone. The pain was so intense that he nearly passed out, then suddenly, the tooth spoke again.

"...You must find a new trainer. Seek out the one known as The Warlock... Oh, and when I said 'wear the tooth' I meant on a necklace or as a cufflink. Not imbedded in your own face, you doofus!"

Wrocky passed out.

With very little time on his side, Wrocky searched high and low, far and wide for the one known as The Warlock. He trekked across the African savannah, the Indian jungle, the Australian outback... turns out he lived next-door-but-one so that was half the week wasted, but not to worry, it was a nice little holiday and Wrocky had found him now.

He knocked on The Warlock's front door *knockedy knock-knock*. It swung open and there stood an elderly man in a white dressing gown, holding a cup of tea. Wrocky dropped to his knees, wailing in awe like a madman.

"The Warlock! I am on a holy pilgrimage! I have travelled many miles, scoured the Earth to find you! You have three days to hone my skills and get me in the best shape of my life, ready to fight Hugo Dragonsbane, the greatest boxer in all of Norway! Will you accept me as your disciple, oh lord?"

The Warlock took a long, contemplative sip of his Earl Grey. "Yeah, okay." He said, waving a small bottle of chloroform under Wrocky's broken nose.

Wrocky passed out.

In his slumber, Wrocky dreamt of becoming the world's first OAP boxing champion, he would defeat Hugo Dragonsbane in Oslo with both hands tied behind his back on Thanksgiving Day. Then, he would celebrate in his customary way of ODing on human growth hormones and winding up in a gay bar with Paulie, snorting a line of fire ants off the back of a transvestite.

Wrocky awoke with a start. He sat up in bed to see The Warlock standing over him, wearing a beautifully sequinned Japanese kimono, a white stick-on beard and a lampshade on his head. He looked like Confucius on acid. "Good morning, sleeping beauty." Said the wise old weirdo.

Wrocky surveyed the strange room he found himself in, it was like a cheap Chinese souvenir shop, cluttered with plastic bonsai trees, bamboo wind chimes and other such trivial bric-a-brac.

"I have been instructed by the all-knowing ones to train the boxer who wears a sacred artefact - The Holy Molar of Mycenae - once owned by the great king Agamemnon. I thought you were the one of which they spoke, but I see that you do not wear the legendary golden tooth. Perhaps, in my advanced stages of senile dementia, I was mistaken..." Said The Warlock with a look of disappointment on his shrivelled face.

Wrocky grinned as widely as he could, exhibiting the glimmering gnasher lodged firmly into the back of his lower jaw, sitting snugly between a pair of manky molars.

"By the hordes of Babylon!" Gasped The Warlock. "You are physically conjoined to The Holy Molar of Mycenae... You are the one chosen one! You see, most people would just wear the tooth on a necklace or a cufflink but you... you have imbedded the damn thing directly into your own face! This can only mean that you are a true, fearless champion of men, like the mighty Hercules in the days of antiquity! Either that or you're just really, _really_ brain-damaged..."

Wrocky fidgeted uneasily. He sort of knew which of these was more likely to be true, but decided not to comment.

The Warlock continued to rant, waving his arms around like he was on fire, sloshing Earl Grey everywhere. "Now I must commence your training and prove your worth to the gods of war to activate the powers of the holy molar! When my work is complete, you won't be an Italian stallion anymore, oh no... You'll be an unstoppable Italian MAN-BEAST! But first, I need to go take a slash, I've had far too much tea this morning!"

The Warlock rushed out of the room in a sweaty fluster, slamming the door behind him. Now alone, Wrocky got out of bed and wandered aimlessly around the oriental-style bedroom, gently punching the walls (this is what he liked to do sometimes). After a few moments of this he glanced down and realised he was naked - he had been completely undressed in his sleep. Wrocky wondered to himself if The Warlock really was a boxing trainer, or if, by some far-flung chance, he was just a mentally deranged, tea-drinking orientaphile and potential rapist.

"Of course not!" He chortled to himself, grabbing a judo suit he found laid out over the back of a tiny bamboo chair. He slipped it on, careful not to knock over a nearby stack of 'Rapist Monthly' magazines. "This guy is absolutely, one-hundred percent legit!"

Wrapping a rainbow-coloured belt around his waist and tying it securely at the front using a knot he learnt in the boy scouts, Wrocky looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like an absolute nob.

"So, this is where my journey begins..." He muttered.


	2. Chapter 2: The Legend Continues

"To activate the powers of The Holy Molar of Mycenae, you must prove yourself to be a true champion of champions by fighting and defeating three legendary warriors, each with his own unique style of hand-to-hand combat:

- The first, Reggie Turnbuckle, lives in the African savanna and utilises the quick and agile _gazelle_ style.

- The second, Bolo Bob, lives in the Indian jungle and utilises the artful _macaque_ style.

- The third and most deadly of all the warriors, Falcon Deathwing, lives in the Australian outback and utilises the virtually indestructible _wombat_ style..."

Before The Warlock could complete his lecture, Wrocky let out an almighty, bear-like roar, slamming his meaty fists down onto the kitchen table.

"Are you freakin' kidding me?! I've just been to all those places when I was looking for you! Besides, I've already beaten three legendary warriors:Apollo Cream, Flubber Lang and Yvonne Drago! What more do I got to prove? WHAT DO I GOT TO PROVE, YA FRUIT LOAF?!"

The Warlock let out a long, wheezing laugh-cough, inadvertently dislodging great chunks of mucus from his wretched bronchi.

"You want some friendly advice, Wrocky m'boy?" Smirked the old wise-man, pouring himself a fresh cup of Darjeeling and sparking up a menthol fag. "Just go along with this flimsy-ass plot and don't bother trying to make sense of it. Why, don't you realise that nothing in your entire life has _ever_ made any sense? Think about it... A thirty-something, 5'9" Italian dude KOs an undefeated Mohammad Ali clone to become the new heavyweight champion of the world; then, at forty, sustains repeated blows of 2,150 psi to the head and somehow doesn't die; then, at nearly _sixty_, miraculously recovers from irreversible brain damage, then goes on to narrowly lose a split decision against an undefeated champion less than half his age... Does any of this sound familiar to you?"

Wrocky had been rumbled.

"That sounds like a perfectly logical sequence of events..." He muttered, awkwardly adjusting his rainbow-belted judo suit and fondling his rubber balls.

"It sounds like garbage!" Barked The Warlock. "Now, are you going to fight these guys or not?"

Wrocky nodded.

And so our gallant hero and his decrepit mentor set off across the globe in search of the three legendary warriors. Flying Montage Airways, they first arrived in the African savanna. But when they rocked up at Reggie Turnbuckle's secret dojo, ready for a scrap, there was no sign of the the occupant anywhere. The locals informed our protagonists that a dark and mysterious boxer, known only as The Phantom Fister, had defeated their champion with a punch so powerful that it turned the nimble gazelle-gladiator into a glorious green emerald.

It was the same story when they reached the Indian jungle; Bolo Bob, the tricky macaque-man, had been annihilated by a punch so mighty that the atoms of this body imploded in on themselves, forming a beautiful blue sapphire. And in the Australian outback, even Falcon Deathwing, the virtually indestructible wombat-warrior, had been vanquished, reduced to a ravishing red ruby.

The three legendary warriors had stood their ground against The Phantom Fister and each, in turn, had fallen. However, due to their magical nature, they had not been _completely_ destroyed - they were immortal after all. Instead, their very essences had been compressed into these tiny crystalline structures, every bit as alive as Paulie's mouldy underwear. Yet, as alive as they may have been, it was **crystal clear** that they were in no fit state to box. So Wrocky was left with no foreseeable way to prove himself worthy enough to activate the powers of The Holy Molar of Mycenae; his only chance of defeating Hugo Dragonsbane.

Could this mark the end of our hero's ill-fated journey?

Nope.

The Warlock held out his knobbly, arthritis-ridden hands, cupping the three lucid jewels in his withered palms. "Whoever did this to the three legendary warriors is equipped with a punch more powerful than anything I have ever witnessed in all my years as a metaphysical boxing trainer." He Said.

As he spoke, the precious stones in his hands began to glow, simultaneously emitting a fearful wail. Their eerie lament rang out, filling the air with an icy chill before gradually fading into silence.

"Their spirits are still trapped inside!" Gasped The Warlock.

"How can we free them?" Wrocky asked, pretending to give a damn about what was going on.

The Warlock answered thoughtfully, running his long, boney fingers through his stick-on beard. "First, we need to find The Fantom Fister. Only _he_ has the power to undo this evilness! Wrocky m'boy, can you think of anyone with a punch powerful enough to turn a fully-grown man into a pathetic, worthless jewel?"

Wrocky knew of only one man with such godlike strength. A man he had fought long ago. But could it be...?

Yep.

"Buckle up, Gandalf. We're a-headed to Russia!"


	3. Chapter 3: In Soviet Russia

The master trainer and his young padawan landed in Soviet Russia with only two days left until the big fight. They stepped off the plane, instantly finding themselves in the midst of a bleak, frozen wasteland. No trace of modern civilisation. Nowhere for Wrocky to get his regular Botox injections. Nothing. Only the grim-faced local peasants for company, with their hollow eyes and terrible fashion sense, ravaged by the harsh conditions and the communist regime. They scurried about their senseless business like diseased rats, scooping up great heaps of snow from the fields to bake into snow-cakes.

Far off in the distance, Wrocky could see a black, cast-iron castle sat atop a craggy mountain peak, overlooking the lands below.

"Could that be the castle of Yvonne Drago?" Asked Wrocky.

The Warlock scoffed, "Of course not! That's the Castle of Count Gorbachov. They say that at night, he assumes the form of a vile bat and swoops down into the surrounding villages to harvest the souls of the locals."

A peculiar shudder crept up Wrocky's spine, as if someone was walking over his grave. He turned around to see an old peasant-woman stroking his back.

"Ew! It touched me!" He screamed, punching the old crone full-force in the face - killing her outright.

"She's gone to a better place now." Said The Warlock.

After literally _hours_ of searching, our heroes came to the edge of a forest. There were strange howls coming from deep inside, among the ancient, quivering trees.

While The Warlock stood guard at a nearby café with a cup of oolong, Wrocky fearlessly entered the woodland. With his left hand cocked, ready to deliver a fatal blow, his right hand cupped his precious rubber balls. He stalked the undergrowth like a powerful badger, snuffling out the source of the sonorous caterwaul that filled the air, eventually finding himself at the edge of a small clearing. The dreadful noise was very loud and clear now.

Entering the clearing, Wrocky spotted an enormously muscular man sitting amongst a collection of boulders, bawling his eyes out. His well-oiled, muscular torso rippled in the late-afternoon sun like a delicious plate of raw chicken.

"Drago?" Wrocky breathed.

The mountainous man slowly stood up and rotated his enormous baby-face into view. It _was_ Yvonne Drago!

"Hyello Myister Byell-byoa, my arch nyemesis." He boomed in a thick Russian accent, wiping a tear from his cheek and sniffing hard.

"Why were you crying?" Wrocky asked.

"I cry because my people no like me. Because they turn their back on me after I become defeated. I cry because I want to be hero, but instead... I am _freak_!"

At that, the hulking giant turned to a boulder the size of a Volkswagen and punched it with so much force that it became self-aware for a brief moment, only to crumble into a perfectly conical mound fine, grey sand.

"Still packing a punch, huh?" Wrocky laughed. A bit of snot accidentally shot out of his nose but no one noticed so it was okay.

Yvonne continued his tale of woe, "After you beat me, I lose everything... My trainer, my sleazy entourage, my book deal, even my wife, Brigitte Nielsen, she leave me for inferior American rapper with silly name..."

"Tell ya wot." Wrocky interrupted, "If you want to be a hero again, why don't you just get rid of that evil Count Gorbachov who torments the villages around these parts?"

"I try, little man, I try. But the mountain he live on is actually volcano. I would break his iron castle but it is surrounded by a moat of molten lava which no mortal man can cross." Yvonne confessed.

After an awkward silence, a lopsided grin stretched across Wrocky's gormless face. His severely damaged brain had just devised a cunning plan.

Later that evening, while all the houses were boarded up for the night, Wrocky dressed himself in the garbs of a local peasant girl and frolicked around the village streets carrying a basket of wildflowers.

After several hours of frolicking, Count Gorbachov flew down from his castle with his foul, fanged mouth gaping open. The black bat began to devour Wrocky's soul when it suddenly shrieked and dropped to the ground, writhing about the snow in agony.

"I knew it!" Wrocky announced triumphantly, tearing off his less-than-convincing costume. "My American soul is too rich for your commie digestive system to handle!"

The bat transformed into Gorbachov's human form, hunched over, clutching his bulbous, ballooned belly and breathing heavily.

"Wrocky Bell-boa. Put up your dukes, son. We're going to rumble, young man, rumble!" Hissed Gorbachov.

As the two men circled each other, a small crowd began to congregate around them. Wrocky slugged the old man right in the gut, but Gorbachov was stronger than he looked; with his vampiric strength, he lunged forwards, knocking Wrocky arse-over-tit.

Wrocky yelped like a wounded bear. "NOW YVONNE, NAOW!"

Hearing his comrade's cry, Yvonne Drago sprung out of the basket of wildflowers like a jack-in-the-box and punched Count Gorbachov in the face as hard as he could.

*CRUNK!*

In a blinding flash of light, Gorbachov was turned into an ominous onyx!

The black gem shot up into the air, flying higher and higher until it was indistinguishable from the night sky. When it eventually fell back to Earth, it landed in the lake of molten lava surrounding Gorbachov's castle. Hitting the liquid rock with a *plop!*, it slowly started sinking down, down into oblivion - never to be seen again.

A voice cried out from the crowd of onlookers. "By the ivory horn of Ganesha! It's that damned elusive Phantom Fister!" It was none other than The Warlock, standing among the astonished peasant-folk with a slice if snow-cake in his hand.

In a flash of recollection, Wrocky suddenly remembered why they came to Russia in the first place - to find the shadowy assassin who transformed the three legendary warriors into cursed jewels! But before he could confront his prime suspect, the crowd began to cheer, lifting Yvonne high above their heads and carrying him away, parading their new national hero through the cobblestone streets of Moscow.

Looking on in disbelief, Wrocky thought to himself "Could it be? Surely this man isn't the same two-dimensional, stereotypical pantomime villain I beat back in the 80's... Could this misunderstood quirk of nature _really_ be The Phantom Fister...?"

No. He wasn't.

"I yam not The Phyantom Fyister." Said Yvonne later on that night.

And so the epic journey continues...


	4. Chapter 4: More Stuff Happens

"Okay Wrocky, m'boy. We only have one day left until you fight Hugo Dragonsbane and you _still_ haven't activated the powers of The Holy Molar Mycenae! We're in dire excrement here! Not to put too fine a point on it, but we are in an ocean of diarrhoea without a paddle! And let's face it, that ain't good!" Exclaimed The Warlock, hopping up and down on the spot in his sequinned kimono like a giant silverfish on naughty pills.

Wrocky stared at the floor. "I'm doomded." He slurred defeatedly.

"Oh no you're not!" Spat The Warlock. "For I have a plan!... We need to get every professional boxer in the world to fight in an all-out, win or die, battle royale! That's the only way we can uncover The Phantom Fister!"

Wrocky was unconvinced. How could this old lunatic possibly organise a Mortal Kombat-style boxing tournament and simultaneously round up every fighter in the world within a day?

Later that day...

Wrocky and The Warlock had miraculously posted almost _ten _leaflets all over the town, inviting every professional boxer in the world to a free, slap-up quinoa salad at 44 Sasquatch Lane - The Warlock's humble abode.

"And now we play the waiting game..." Said The Warlock, smugly taking a puff of his funny-smelling roll-up.

Later that evening...

There must have been hundreds of testosterone-pumped, punch-drunk boxers crammed into The Warlock's inadequate kitchen, chomping on mouthfuls of quinoa by truckload. Every few minutes, the front door would violently swing open and another muscular figure would enter the house. The next to join the party was 'Baron' Sharon Briggs, followed by Joe 'Blow' Calzone and Kev Norton 'Anti-Virus'.

"Wow... Word _really_ got around!" Gasped Wrocky.

A few hours later, when it seemed as if everyone had finally arrived, there was an ear-splitting screech that sounded like a cat being turned inside-out. The front door was then kicked off its hinges in an act of unparalleled violence, and in strutted the greatest boxing champion never to be mentioned in any of the Wrocky movies... 'The Digital Destroyer' - Casio Clay!

Part man, part scientific calculator, he made his way into the room, shadow-boxing like an algebraic madman, marking his entrance with a recital of one of his famous digital poems:

"FEE-FI-FO-FETTLE! FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY, STING LIKE A NETTLE! BE YE A MAN, OR BE YE A KETTLE! CASIO IS HERE WITH A SCORE TO SETTLE!"

"What a weirdo." Wrocky thought to himself, adjusting the lapel of his judo suit.

There was a putrid retching sound coming from somewhere across the room - amidst the merrymaking. One of the boxers, King Cooper, was chocking on a congealed chunk of quinoa that had somehow become lodged in his throat! Without a second thought, Wrocky ran to his fellow pugilist's aid and performed the Heimlich manoeuvre; wrapping his tree-trunk arms around Cooper's sternum and squeezing hard, the forceful expulsion of air fired a sticky quinoa cannonball from Cooper's gasping gullet at the speed of sound. The semi-masticated projectile plopped directly into The Warlock's cup of Bombay chai, sending the old sansei into an uncontrollable temper tantrum.

"ENOUGH!" He screamed. The whole house fell silent. "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your cauliflower ears! I have gathered you all here today, _not _to indulge in a grain-based superfood jamboree! But to fight to the very _death _in the greatest illegal, underground boxing tournament ever to take place in the history of the world - _ever!_ It is time for you to put aside your similarities, and brutally slaughter one another like _dogs _until only one man is left standing victorious!"

"Oh! Like The Hunger Games?" Called out Manny Pachinko.

This seemed to anger The Warlock even more. "No, not like The Hungry Games!" He snapped. "If anything, it'll be more like a cross between Fight Club and Enter the Dragon!"

"Say what?! I've not seen either of those punk-ass movies!" Heckled George Storeman.

A boisterous rabble ensued. What was this crazy old oriental prune on about? One of the boxers, Vladimir Clinchko, thew his hands into the air in disgust and began to make his way to the front door.

"Wait!" Screamed The Warlock, putting himself between the musclebound moron and the dilapidated door. "If you want to leave... You're gonna have to go through ME!"

"OMG. This is going to be epic!" Wrocky thought aloud. His own master; the finest metaphysical boxing trainer in the world vs the reigning WBG heavyweight champion, Vladimir Clinchko. Wrocky simply couldn't wait to see what would happen next...

Vladimir confidently strode forwards, cracking his large knuckles, ready to punch-out the crazy old twit that stood in his way. It was time for The Warlock to make his move. "Watch and learn, kid!" He snarled, pulling an AK-47 out from underneath his kimono and gunning the big Ukrainian down in cold blood, emptying every last bullet into the his enemy's Eastern-European hide. He then slapped a fresh magazine into the smoking firearm and pointed it around the room, rambling nonsensically beneath his breath.

From that point on, everyone seemed to become a lot more co-operative. The Warlock jotted down the names of all fighters present on chewing gum wrappers and tossed them into his lampshade hat.

The first two names to be picked out of the hat were: Sugar Cube Leonard and Lloyd Fairweather. So, at gunpoint, the two men fearlessly duked it out bare-knuckle like 18th century prizefighters, with Sugar Cube ultimately prevailing; shearing Lloyd's face clean off his skull with a savage sucrose slap.

Next up were the heavyweights: John Jackson and Sonny Piston. They commenced a gruelling punch-up, ploughing swaths of flesh from each other's faces with their bare knuckles alone. It was a gruesome contest. Yet, despite their undoubtable ferociousness, neither of these gentlemen could be The Phantom Fister.

The next name out of the lampshade was Casio Clay, and his opponent was to be... Wrocky Bell-boa! Wrocky nearly had an accident in his pants. This was it. The old former-champ craftily slipped a pair of tungsten knuckledusters over his stubby fingers and limbered himself up.

The two warriors came to the centre of the kitchen and began to circle each other like fearless stag beetles. Wrocky lowered his guard and stupidly plodded forwards like he always does. Casio darted out a series of lightning-fast jabs, but Wrocky cleverly blocked the deadly shots with his face, allowing useless organs such as his brain to absorb as much of the shock as possible. Wrocky responded with a slug to the body, followed by another slug to the body, then a little bit of twinkle-toes that he learnt in Wrocky 3, followed by a few more slugs to the body. As Casio stumbled backwards, The Warlock plunged a kebab skewer into his back. Luckily, nobody noticed. Wrocky resumed the onslaught with nineteen successive slugs to the body. Casio was on his knees now, cradling his shattered ribcage and coughing up liquid crystal numbers, the tiny beasts fell from his quivering lips and hit the Lino flooring with a *tap... tap-a-tap... tap...* then scurried away into the shadows like black enamel spiders. A final slug to the body finally sent Casio into a coma. He died moments later.

Wrocky was victorious! He had broken every single bone in his face and received so much brain damage that he forgot what colour his legs were, but he was still the winner, make-a no mistake-a!

The next two names to be plucked from the lampshade of fate were: Masom 'The Lime' Dixom and Flubber Lang!

"Ha! Nice knowing ya Masom!" Wrocky bellowed as they entered the blood-stained battle-zone. Flubber instantly went berserk on little Masom, pounding his bald, spherical head to smithereens with vicious left and right hooks. Oh, Flubber was having a whale of a time! A broad smile stretched across his entire face as he continued to beat the living daylights out of his smaller opponent. After several hours of relentless punching, Flubber stopped to grab himself a glass of Coco-Cola to cool off. Much to Wrocky's surprise though, Masom looked relatively unscathed.

'The Lime' called out to Flubber, "Dat all you got, Mohawk-man?"

Flubber was infuriated. He chucked his can of Coco-Cola into the recycling bin and squared up to the young man. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, Masom punched Flubber so hard that he completely disappeared!

Everybody in the room cried out in unison, "THE PHANTOM FISTER!"

Nobody would ever discover the truth behind Flubber Lang's mysterious disappearance that night, for he was still very much alive, albeit on an altogether different plane of existence. The force from Masom's almighty punch had somehow shrunk Flubber's entire body down to a microscopic level. Immediately after the impact, he found himself floating down into an endless void for what seemed like an eternity, until eventually, he hit solid ground.

Flubber encountered many strange beings on his life-long voyage across The Warlock's kitchen floor, but none so lovely as Edna the E. coli bacteria. He fell in love with sweet Edna and eventually fathered several strange children by her. When he finally passed away, surrounded by his doting family, he did so an old and contented man. "I love you, Edna." Were his final words.

The next day, Edna was found dead, hanging from her own flagellum.


End file.
